


Creation

by SaunterVaguely



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Bottom Roadhog, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Junkenstein AU, M/M, Mild Gore, Mutual Pining, Trans Junkrat | Jamison Fawkes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-23 08:38:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8321200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaunterVaguely/pseuds/SaunterVaguely
Summary: “You’re… dead? I mean. You died. You’re not dead anymore, sort of. Some parts of you are still dead. That is to say… okay, so you’re about ninety-five percent alive. Ninety-seven percent, even.”(The Junkenstein-ish AU I started writing a few weeks before the comic/update; doesn't really follow the official storyline.)





	1. Chapter 1

I know there are a bunch of excellent Junkenstein works out there right now but I’m posting this anyway! Also, like I mentioned in the description, this was started before the full update, before the comic and new skins were released, so my version of “creature Hog” was written with regular Mako Rutledge in mind (without the pig mask) and Junkrat (again, this was started before “Junkenstein”, so he’s just Jamison Fawkes) is more of a lonely scientist pushing the boundaries of natural law than a scorned doctor out for revenge. Just a heads up for all y’all!

* * *

 

He wakes up on a cold, hard surface with a jolt. His senses are slow to follow; he picks things up one at a time. His chest hurts— he sucks in air, lungs expanding. His head hurts— there’s a bright light overhead, and he squints against it. He can hear rumbling in the distance— thunder, rain, a storm passing by. The room he’s in smells musty, chemical tang making him wrinkle his nose. He feels hungover. What did he do last night? He can’t remember. Where is he?

_Who_ is he?

That’s an alarming question, and it becomes even more alarming when he can’t answer it right away. He tries to reach up to massage his aching forehead, but his limbs are leaden and stiff. His brain feels like a cotton ball. He’s on some sort of low table. Is he in a hospital? It doesn’t seem like it; from what he can see he appears to be in a high-walled wooden room. There are old farm tools hanging from the walls and what look like stalls on one side. A barn?

…Mako, his name is Mako.

Right. Good.

There’s a gasp from somewhere nearby; he’s not alone. He turns his head with some difficulty to see a man standing on the other side of the room. He’s blond and lanky and has terrible posture under his baggy, loose coat and neon orange crop top. He’s staring at Mako with wide eyes nearly the same color as his shirt, his mouth hanging open.

Mako stares back at him blankly. Did they sleep together? He can’t for the life of him remember.

“Holy shit,” the stranger breathes, staring at him. “It worked.” His sharp face breaks into a wide grin, a giggle bursting out of him until he claps a hand over his mouth to stifle it. “It worked. I mean, of course it worked. Cor, lookit you, mate!” He rushes forward to the table and runs his hands over Mako’s torso, his arms, his face, peers into his eyes. “You’re perfect!”

Mako opens his mouth to speak, ignoring the fluttering in his stomach at the comment and sudden contact, but his voice is only a rasping wheeze. He coughs, chokes, and the stranger fumbles for something under the table.

“Hang on, I got ya…” He pulls out a mask like device connected to a series of tubes, holds it over Mako’s mouth. He draws in a cautious breath and the coughing subsides almost immediately.

As soon as his lungs stop burning, he tries once more to ask what’s happened, where he is, who the stranger is. Again, nothing comes out but a grating noise, but he manages to at least make it sound questioning.

The stranger grimaces. “Shit, I guess I shoulda practiced this. I’m not great at breaking bad news.” He scratches nervously at the back of his neck, glancing at Mako and then at the floor. “You’re… dead? I mean. You died. You’re not dead anymore, sort of. Some parts of you are still dead. Like, it was more important to save your brain than both your kidneys, know what I mean? Eh, heheh, that is to say… okay, so you’re about ninety-five percent alive. Ninety-seven percent, even. And the rest of you may or may not be pig stem cells.”

Mako stares at him in alarm and makes a choked sound.

The man hunches his skinny frame and shrugs helplessly. “You, eh… you donated your body to science and, well. I’m a scientist.”

Mako makes a deep, resonating noise of confusion and unhappiness, whale-like. The stranger’s eyes go big and sad, his face crumpling in sympathy. “Hey, it’s okay.” He holds out both hands— they don’t match, he notices, one is bony flesh and the other chipped metal— as if to help support him. Mako takes them, dwarfing them in his massive palms, and feels the scientist’s pulse thrumming under his skin. He stares down at his own hands and sees thick stitches at his wrists, holding dark grey skin together.

For some reason, the sight of that contrast sends a wave of rage crashing through Mako, white-hot anger flooding his brain and pushing out any other thought. He drops the scientist’s hands with a roar, launches himself off the table and slams the man into the wall of the barn, pinning him there with one massive palm.

“S-so you’re a bit angry, then?” The scientist squeaks, eyes bugging out. His pulse is stronger in his throat, pounding in time with the throb of fury beating at Mako’s temples. He snarls and presses harder, feels something creak under his fingers and hears the gasping wheeze of empty lungs, draws his other arm back and prepares to swing—

—and suddenly he’s staggering back, releasing the smaller man who falls coughing to the floor. He wants to say that he didn’t mean to do that, that he’s sorry if he hurt him, but still no words will form properly. The scientist seems to understand him regardless.

“Less impulse control, right? That seemed to be one of the effects the process had on my other subjects. Er, speaking of which,” he glances sheepishly at Mako, grinning as if the big man hadn’t just tried to kill him. “I hope you ain’t got any allergies or fear of animals, cuz uh…” He pulls himself up, wobbling slightly, and yanks open one of the rolling barn doors to the paddock. Three pigs of various sizes grunt and snuffle contentedly, nosing through the muddy earth, while a dozen rats climb in and out of a decrepit chicken coop. All of them have faded surgical scars; two of the pigs appear to have had their heads swapped and one of the rats has a curly tail. “Got the rats from a lab dumpster and the piggies from a slaughterhouse. Funny how no one questions a guy buying a fresh pig corpse, but when the same guy tries to sneak out of the morgue with an anonymous corpse it’s all ‘Ooh who are you, where’s your ID pass, what’re you doing with that gurney, blah blah blah’.” He snorts, looks up at Mako. “I’m Jamison Fawkes. Or Junkrat, if you like nicknames. Whichever.”

Mako makes what he hopes is an apologetic sound, gesturing at Junkrat’s reddened throat. Once again, it seems he doesn’t need words to get his point across, because the smaller man grins ruefully and shakes his head.

“No worries, mate. I’d be angry, too, if I woke up to some dingo-lookin’ arsehole telling me I’d copped it!” He lets out another high-pitched cackle, drumming his fingers against the barn door, and glances up at Mako. “Yer probably pretty tired still, yeah? And hungry, I bet. I’ve got, uh…” He goes hurrying across the room to a small fridge next to a cluttered desk. He has a limp, and Mako notices he has a prosthetic leg to match his arm. “I’ve got— well, a couple boxes of leftover Chinese.” He pulls the takeout containers out and sets them onto the table.

Mako takes a step forward, his stomach rumbling, but a sudden realization stops him in his tracks, has him hunching over and covering himself with both hands while a noise of faint distress escapes him. Jamison looks up in concern, which morphs into confusion and then understanding.

“Oh, fuck, right! Right! My bad, mate, that’s on me, hang on a tic…” He goes hobble-sprinting through the barn to a pile of clothing in one corner and begins pawing through it, flinging shirts and socks left and right. “Think I got some things here that’ll fit ya… grabbed a buncha stuff from the thrift store in town… Aha!” He waves a huge Hawaiian shirt over his head like a flag.

Mako accepts the shirt gratefully, along with the hot pink trackpants that say “Juicy” in big letters on the butt. He pulls them on and leans against the table to examine the food. The stir-fried rice and crispy tofu are appetizing, but something about the idea of eating the spicy pork belly feels incredibly uncomfortable, so he pushes that last container aside and digs into the others. Halfway through his meal, he glances up to see Junkrat watching him intently, elbows propped up on the table to support his chin as he stares with barely-contained glee. Mako’s frozen expression must convey his discomfort, because the scientist quickly shuffles back, looking contrite.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m just—“ He giggles again, hides his grin behind his hands. “I’m really, really glad you’re here. I mean,” he corrects himself, flushing, “I’m glad the procedure worked on a human.”

Mako puts more tofu in his mouth.

After he finishes eating, Junkrat leads him over to one of the stalls, which has apparently been converted to a sleeping area: a mattress has been hauled into the space and heaped with blankets and pillows. “Nice and cozy,” he promises.

Taking his word for it, Mako lowers himself into the bedding and shifts around to get comfortable, wincing briefly when something jabs at his back. He reaches back and pulls a hardcover book from under the sheets.

“Oops,” Jamison says, plucking it from his fingers. “Yeah, there might be… a couple of those in there. Just set ‘em to the side.”

Mako grunts and settles back against the mattress, pulling one of the blankets with him. Junkrat beams at him until he rumbles in mild irritation, at which point the scientist ducks out of sight. Mako waits until he hears the clatter of activity on the other side of the barn before closing his eyes and giving in to his exhaustion.


	2. Chapter 2

 

He wakes up a few hours later, a ray of sunlight from a gap in the roof warming his face. It takes a few seconds for the reality of what happened to sink in once more, and he rolls over and stares at the wall of the stall for a while, turning over the bits and pieces of memory as they come to him. Finally he sits up and stretches, feeling a disconcerting number of cracks and clicks from his joints, and then stands to search for his… host.

He finds Jamison Fawkes asleep on the floor of the barn, his back against his desk and his head lolling to the side, drool drying on his collar. He’s also covered in rats. Several of the rodents from the chicken coop have tucked themselves against his body like an unsettling living blanket, one in each of his pockets, a few sprawled over his legs and one nestled under his chin. It should be revolting rather than charming, but Mako finds himself charmed nonetheless.

He reaches down and lightly taps Junkrat (the nickname makes sense now) on the shoulder.

Rather than waking calmly, like Mako was expecting, the scientist flails away from the touch with a terrified shriek, arms and legs flinging outward defensively and sending the rats scattering. He falls to the floor, limbs tangling in his coat, and is scrambling backward before his eyes even open. As soon as his eyes do open and he catches sight of his creation standing over him, frozen in alarm, he stills.

“Oh,” he says, blinking. “’S just you. Mornin’.” His voice is creaky from sleep, but he offers Mako a smile as he rubs at his eyes.

It occurs to Mako that a normal person would have had the exact opposite reaction to Jamison’s upon waking up to an undead giant crouched over them. He snorts in morbid amusement, but when he opens his mouth to return the greeting the result is the same as the night before: only a low, wordless rumble escapes him. Jamison frowns and sits up a bit more, reaching out with both hands to cup Mako’s jaw.

“Somethin’ musta gone a little haywire with your vocal cords.” Thin fingers, both metal and flesh, slide down his throat, sending goosebumps along the patchwork of his skin. “Does it hurt at all?”

Mako shakes his head, swallowing against Junkrat’s palms. The scientist makes a soft noise and pulls a penlight from his pocket, shining it into the bigger man’s eyes. “Pupillary response is good… pulse is steady… no swelling that I can feel. Open your mouth?”

He obeys, jaw creaking as he opens it wide for the scientist to peer into. Junkrat examines him, pokes and prods, listens to his lungs, and seems frustrated when he can find nothing wrong. He suggests that it might be a block in Mako’s brain rather than his throat, some synapse that hasn’t caught up with being alive again. Hopefully, he says, speech will return to him in time.

“Hey, before I forget, what d’you want me to call you? You were an anonymous cadaver and it seemed kinda weird to name you myself.”

Mako hums contemplatively, trying to think of a nickname for Junkrat to use, since he can’t say his name. He casts his eyes about for something else he can relate to, settles on the trio of figures outside and lets out a soft huff of ironic amusement. He points and Jamison follows with his gaze, his brows raising.

“What? The pigs? Wait, you wanna be called ‘pig’?”

Mako grunts and shrugs. It’s not exactly the word he was thinking but it’s close.

“Hang on,” Junkrat spins around and scrabbles through his desk. “Dunno why I didn’t think of this earlier. Here.” He holds out a pen and a pad of paper.

Mako takes both delicately between his thick fingers, starts to write out his name and hesitates. He doesn’t feel much like Mako anymore, truthfully. He thinks he might prefer the new nickname, so he writes it out, grumbling at the awkwardness of the tiny writing tool.

“Hog?” Jamison reads off, leaning over his arm.

Mako— _Hog_ , he thinks to himself— gives him a thumbs up, then taps at the stitches across his chest.

“Wh- oh! Oh, cos of the pig parts?”

Another thumbs up, and Junkrat lets out a delighted peal of laughter.

“That’s brilliant, mate, I love it! Hog. Okay, Hog. How ‘bout I whip us up some breakfast?”

Hog nods and steps back to watch the smaller man make his way across the barn. He seems to be moving with more difficulty than the day before, and Hog wonders if sleeping with his mechanical limbs attached bothers him.

Junkrat feeds the animals first, dumping a sack of feed into the pigs’ trough and scattering fistfuls of chestnuts among the grass for them to root for, following it up with more feed for the rats. Then they sit down to a meal of yoghurt and eggs cooked over a hotplate, washing it down with sweet tea. They’re cleaning up after eating (Junkrat’s definition of “cleaning up” is apparently dumping all the dishes in a pile) when a low rumble interrupts them. Hog’s head whips toward the sound as it builds outside the barn doors, his brow furrowing suspiciously, and Jamison glances out the shuttered window.

“Shit, I forgot. Uh. Okay. Do me a favor and just… stay in the barn.” He holds out both hands as if to keep Hog from moving, which is laughable given the difference in their sizes, but Hog nods his understanding.

He twitches and growls uneasily, however, when a slam comes from outside, followed by three loud bangs on the door. Junkrat shoots him a pleading look, silently asking him to be still, and goes to answer the door.

Hog can’t see the visitor from his position, but he hears a nasal voice say, “Got your delivery… hey, you’re that fuckin’ weirdo scientist guy! That dude in the news, right?”

“No,” Junkrat mutters, digging through his pockets for a few crumpled bills, which he hands over with hunched shoulders. “I ain’t whoever yer thinkin’ of.”

“Well, you sure look like him. What’re you doing in that barn, anyway?” There’s a scuffling sound, like the delivery guy is trying to get past for a peek, and Hog feels his hands curl into fists, feels that hazy red sensation again at the thought of someone intruding.

“None of your fucking business, is it?” Junkrat snaps, scuttling backward into the barn with a stack of boxes in his arms. He kicks the door shut behind him and sets the boxes down, then goes to close the shutters on all the windows.

There’s a pause, then a scoff from outside, a low mutter of “Freak” followed by the rumble of the engine starting up and receding. Hog bares his teeth at the closed doors.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Junkrat says as he hauls the boxes over to his desk. “I get supplies delivered once in a while; don’t like going into town.” He begins opening them and sorting through the contents: mostly dried food packets and various chemicals in bulk. The bottom two boxes are full of sacks of pig feed. The final box he lifts and holds out for Hog to take. “Figured you’d want some new kit. Just leave whatever you don’t like in the box and I’ll ship it back. Or repurpose it, whichever.”

Hog tears the lid off the box with one easy motion and finds an assortment of folded shirts, underwear, trousers and socks in his size. He paws through them, selecting a few and setting them to the side. He’s especially pleased with the pair of dungarees and the soft cotton shirt that has a faded print of a motorcycle, though he’s not certain why.

Satisfied with his new clothing, he steps curiously outside into the paddock while Jamison sorts the delivery. The pigs squeal and scatter from him at first, but soon they come closer to snuffle at his feet and search his pockets with their snouts. Clearly they’re used to finding treats in Junkrat’s pockets, because they grunt in disappointment upon realizing that Hog’s are empty. The smallest pig even shoots him a dirty look before delving into his pockets a second time as if to check whether they really, _really_ are empty. Hog laughs at that, full-on belly laughter that shakes through him and doubles him over. He hears a clatter behind him and turns, still chuckling, to see Junkrat watching him with a flushed face and an armful of dehydrated food packets. The small pig nudges at Hog’s hand, demanding attention, and that sets Hog off again, Jamison joining in with his staccato giggle. They laugh until Hog starts wheezing, until Jamison tugs him back inside and presses the breathing mask to his face again. Gratefully, he lays one massive palm over Junkrat’s head, strokes his thumb against the tufts of his white-blond hair and chuckles when that makes him blush again.


	3. Chapter 3

Everything is a shitshow at the moment and I don't know if it's likely to improve but writing makes me feel better so I'm going to keep doing it.

* * *

 

 

The next few days pass quickly, interspersed with feeding the animals and sitting through a series of unobtrusive tests derived by Junkrat to check his recovery.

For someone so scientifically brilliant and meticulous, Jamison is utterly careless with his health, his belongings and his personal safety. He regularly sets fire to whatever he’s working on, leaves his things lying around the barn and then trips over them, and appears to eat and sleep only when he remembers to do so (which is not often) or is unable to avoid it.

The list of things he seems to have a care for is quite short: the animals, which he coddles and fusses over relentlessly, and his small collection of books, which have been repaired a dozen times over with tape and glue and read so many times the pages have gone tissue-soft.

Hog supposes he falls on that list, too. The thought occurs to him as Junkrat examines the stitches on his chest with all the care and focus of a neurosurgeon, and it brings a pleasant tingle to his skin.

He’s feeding the pigs while Jamison repairs the fence around their pen when something catches his eye, a flash of movement in the distance. He turns to see a car speeding along the road that borders the property, follows it with his gaze and watches it disappear into the trees. From just beyond the woods he can see glowing lights, a strange horizon of blocky forms. _A town_ , he thinks automatically.

He leans against the fence and stares out at the field, at the distant lights of the buildings past the treeline. Blurry pictures fade in and out of his mind’s eye: brightly-painted houses in a line, dark water lapping at a pebbly beach, a long shining road stretching straight into the horizon.

“What’s up, big guy? You want something?”

Hog nods, points toward the trees and the road beyond.

Junkrat turns to look out at the landscape, blinks, looks back up at Hog. “You want… to go out there? To the town?” He guesses.

Hog nods once more, grunting for emphasis.

“Oh,” he says. “Oh. Right.” He seems to deflate briefly, to curl in on himself for a moment before he straightens back up and squares his shoulders. “Of course, mate, of course.” He grins, but it’s not his usual grin; it’s crooked and shaky and Hog only glimpses it for a second before the scientist is sprinting unevenly back into the barn. “Hang on a tic. I got a couple— I got some things.”

Hog watches him curiously as he digs through the organized chaos of the barn, piling a few items on the table and discarding others. Finally he pulls a backpack out from under the bed and starts stuffing the piled objects into it. “Some stuff for you to take with ya,” he explains without looking up when Mako approaches and makes a questioning sound. “Um. Water bottle, some muesli bars… couple other… just. Y’know. Stuff y’might need.” He shrugs apologetically. “If the van weren’t busted I’d offer you the keys or give you a ride or… heh. Sorry.” He reaches under the table and holds up the breathing mask, which has been unhooked from its tubing and instead has two canisters attached to it. “I messed with it a bit, modified it so you can carry it around instead of having to lug everything with it.”

Hog takes the mask, turning it over in his hands to admire the work before tucking it into the proffered bag. He shoulders the satchel (it’s heavier than he expected) and reaches down to give Junkrat a friendly pat on the shoulder as a thank you. To his surprise, Jamison grips the hand with both of his own and squeezes firmly before releasing and stepping back with that same off-kilter smile.

“Have fun, eh?” He says. “Be safe. Look both ways before you cross the street and all.”

Hog chuckles at that strange advice and turns to make his way out the back of the barn, toward the fields and trees. He passes the pigpen and stoops to give the nearest animal a goodbye ear-rub before moving on.

The wind blows across the fields as he walks through them, the only sound over the crunching of his feet on the dry earth. He wonders why Junkrat doesn’t grow anything here; there are rotten stalks scattered across the ground and patches of grass here and there. He avoids the road as he enters the forest, not wanting to be spotted by anyone just yet, and for a while he slows and admires the trees, the call of a few birds and the sight of the dappled sunlight through the leaves. Finally he comes to a clearing that transitions into close-cropped grass, manicured and unnatural.

From the edge of the trees, he can see the buildings he spotted earlier. He stares out at the town, at the bustling, scurrying people living out their lives. He’d expected to feel some deep emotion, sorrow or jealousy or longing, but all he gets is a faint sense of alienation. He has no memories of belonging to a group or feeling at home in a crowd. There’s nothing for him here.

He turns away from the glow of civilization and melts back into the forest, weaves his way through the mossy trees once more. He unzips the bag and withdraws the mask, takes a few deep breaths as he settles at the base of a tree. He pulls out the water bottle and takes a drink, sets it aside and begins pawing curiously through the rest of the items: a dozen muesli bars, more than enough for a simple walk through the woods, a jacket that appears to have originally been two smaller jackets, three well-worn novels. He chuckles under his breath; how long did Junkrat think he would be out? The care behind these unnecessary additions does something warm and pleasant to his stitched-up belly. He digs a bit further and finds three pairs of rolled-up socks. Why in the world would he need extra socks, let alone three pairs, for a short walk? Under the socks is an old watch with a gold band, a second set of canisters for the mask, a small medical kit with a needle and thread, a firestarter, and a wad of crumpled dollar bills.

The warm feeling evaporates, replaced by a cold pit in his stomach.

This is not a pack made for a day trip to the woods or into town; these are provisions for someone who is going away. Junkrat thought he was leaving for good and had equipped him as best he could with what he had, even giving him the books he holds so dear.

Hog is on his feet and moving back toward the farm before he even has time to process the thought.

 


End file.
